


Come On

by littlebitchboy



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Homophobic Language, Internalized Homophobia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-24
Updated: 2020-11-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:01:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27701776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlebitchboy/pseuds/littlebitchboy
Summary: Paul is in a successful band. John is a painter. They meet at a party in the swinging 60's.
Relationships: John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Comments: 16
Kudos: 48





	Come On

**Author's Note:**

> This might be bad, sorry hahah :/

He steps out of the car. A black Rolls-Royce, classy, elegant and supposedly discreet. Discreet to the point of catching attention, Paul thinks. They know what to look for. The photographers, vultures in the shadows, crouching and waiting in the green with their mechanical eye. 

There is always a sense of being watched. With the fame and the fortune comes the unease. A never ending circus in which he is the main attraction. They love to ask him how long it will last. “When will the bubble burst, Paul?” “What’s left, Paul?” “What’s right?” he’ll sometimes jokingly answer. Then he’ll smile and pretend he does not worry about that sort of stuff. Sometimes it’s hard deciphering your own feelings. 

One lesson learned is to never let your underbelly show. He walks with determination, fast but not too fast. The overwhelming want to scan his surroundings is just to be ignored. It will do no good. But Paul knew that from a young age. Nobody wants to see you cry. Just act fine and maybe it’ll come true. So Paul covers himself with a shield and saunters up the steps with a practised look of ease. 

The doorman greets him, plasters an overly polite smile across his features. He’s probably tired of people like Paul. Tired of being older and wiser and doomed to greet and serve bratty celebrities. Paul makes sure to smile back as kindly as he can muster before entering.

The foyer is empty. He disrupts the quiet with the heels of his shoes against the shiny floor. The velvet couch, the lone plant in the corner does nothing to absorb sound. His steps echoes against the walls and ring through his ears. It makes him want to sing one of the old psalms from his choir boy days. But he ignores that impulse and steps into the lift instead. 

As he arrives at the fourth floor, the previous quiet is nowhere to be found. The corridor is vibrating. Behind the wall there’s a dull symphony of voices, the rumble and tumble of a fast paced jazz record. To Paul it seems, as he is standing there in the prelude of a party, that the front door is bursting at the seams with energy. Maybe that’s the joint he smoked earlier, but is there not a convex shape to the wood? Is there not a creaking sound coming from the hinges? Like a tsunami is about to break the door down and come crashing over him. 

He lingers with his hand on the doorknob. Something is different tonight. The unsettling feeling in his chest, some kind of excitement. A thrill in all it’s definitions. It builds and builds with every passing moment, making it harder and harder to do something. 

Seconds or minutes later, he finally rips off the plaster. The door swings open and the tension breaks in half. One half for keeps, one half left at the doorstep. Something pulls him in, the sound envelops him. 

It’s only half as crowded in the flat as he had expected. People stick together in clusters. The corridor is like a vineyard, he walks the narrow path, looking for a familiar face. There he is. 

“Paul!” Robert, the host himself appears, a glass of red in his hand. “Fashionably late? Wouldn’t expect less from a man like you.” 

“Sorry, Bob, got hold up in the studio.” Paul says, shoulders sagging with the sense of calm that settles over him. He feels at ease amidst a crowd. He’s a people-person he supposes. In the company of others he has a distinct role to play. He knows how to please, how to talk and how to listen. It’s not a brag, he thinks. Just the way it is. 

“Well, I think I have finally found a man more addicted to work than me. What a relief, please flaunt your ambition in front of Peter will you? Then he’ll think himself lucky to be stuck with me.”

“Don’t be cheeky!” Paul says, mock offended as they venture further into the flat, zig-zagging between furniture and guests. “You ought to be polite to me if you want to keep up your reputation of being a good host.” 

“I’m just pulling your pigtails. Jane is a very lucky woman of course, we’re all very jealous of her.” Robert winks, all straight-forward and not very straight at all. Paul is amused and maybe a tad flattered. 

In the kitchen, Bob pours Paul a glass of wine. 

“Peter brought it back from France. See what you think of it.” He says. Paul swirls it around, pretend to know what he is doing. George’d have a laugh if he were here, with only a hint of mockery between his lips. “Going posh are we?” He’d ask. Paul smiles before he sips. The bittersweet taste washes over his tongue. 

“It tastes the same as what you’d get at the corner store.” Paul says, smacking his lips. Robert laughs, loud and bright and claps Paul hard enough on the back to make him ricochet forward. The wine sloshes down the side of the glass and drips on his white shoe. Bob doesn’t notice a thing. 

“I’ll have to take you to a tasting sometime, my dear.” He says. “Refine your palette.” 

“You can keep that snobbery to yourself, Bobby. I’m spending my holidays at the beach.” Paul puts the drink down to lick the sweet stickiness from his his fingers. 

“Really? I figured you were too restless for tanning.” 

“Jane has persuaded me. Happy wife, happy life, ain’t it so?” 

“So you’ve popped the question then?” Robert looks intrigued. 

“Just a saying.” Paul shrugs. Truth is he bought a ring a while ago. He’s just not sure if he wants to give it to her. 

They both simultaneously drift into their surroundings. Paul bobs his head to the jazz. The swell of a saxophone crashes against his ear. And by the window two star-crossed lovers are embracing, eyes hazy with intoxication. It’s the perfect evening for people watching, it’s an odd crowd. The creatives usually are weird. All theatrical hand movement and intense conversation. 

Sooner rather than later, Bob is swept away from him. The party gets a hold of him, he throws Paul a polite smile before leaving the room with a long haired fellow. Left to his own devices, Paul decides he might as well see what the night has to offer. 

Following the music he ends up in the living room. The smell of weed is getting stronger. Here, faces are blurry with thick, white smog. 

It can’t possibly be the shamefully small sip of wine that has him tripping, but trip he does. Right into the conversation pit. He lands between two women. Somebody passes him a joint. 

“What’s your name, darling?” he asks the woman to the left of him. She’s taller than him, long legs and curly hair that brushes against his cheek. 

“Don’t even try.” She scoffs, sounding more amused than impolite. She must be one of those bohemian ladies. A painter perhaps. Some of them are hard to get, despite the reputation. 

“You got a boyfriend?” He asks. 

“No, I can’t stand men.” She says, breaking into giggles. He laughs too and passes her the joint. She takes a long drag. 

Paul follows that joint around the room. It passes from hand to hand, a new set of lips around the rolling paper every minute. There’s a few familiar faces, singers, songwriters, guitarists. But most of them are strangers to him. He himself is not a stranger to anyone and he can see it in their eyes. 

The joint is halfway around when Paul sees him. He’s directly opposite of him, casually leaned back, slender legs crossed. The smoke slithers out from between his lips, caresses his face. His spectacles are fogged up. It paints a mysterious picture, Paul would have liked to photograph it. Keep it for himself. 

A half smile blooms across the man’s features. Paul wonders what he is finding amusing. Something in the air? Words or thoughts or just the sativa making it’s way into his bloodstream? Paul himself feels slow, feels hot, feels that smile on his own face. He caught it, like you catch a cold. 

The joint has fizzled into nothing. Paul had abandoned it, stuck on the shape of this man. He’s been staring, he realises, but he can’t seem to care. Then the clouds part. The man sharpens around the edges. Their eyes meet. 

There’s that feeling again. The one that had been straining against the front door. It appears inside of him this time, straining against the lining of his stomach. It builds and grows, he’s about ready to float off. The only thing keeping him on the ground is the stranger, he’s the bit of string tethering Paul to this moment. 

He’s like steel in the sun. Hard and angular, shining. There’s a glint behind those glasses he’s wearing. A message. Not a word but a concept. Paul can’t define it, can barely understand it, but he reaches for it nonetheless. Almost eager to wrap his fingers around it. But he has not yet caught a hold of it before another message comes along.

In the middle of a party, in the middle of a crowd. A choir of voices and the backbeat of a drum. The man’s hand travels along the seam of his trousers. Paul tracks the movement immediately. It’s meant for him, he thinks. 

There’s a careful delicacy to the way he moves, a grace to his dancing fingers. But that softness is cut in half as something rougher takes its place. Something distinctly sexual and less sensual. Resting his palm over his crotch, spreading his legs just a little. 

Paul almost recoils in shock. He flutters back to meet the man’s eyes. He’s smiling wide. Cheshire Cat grin, gleeful in the branches of a tree. Paul needs a second. A second passes. And after that one, another. He settles into his confusion. Raises his eyebrows, quirks his lip. Maybe to convince the both of them that there is still humour to be found in this bizarre situation. 

The man licks his lips. His fingers hook into the hoops of his belt. Paul swallows. 

“Hey, you’re Paul, right?” The interruption jolts him with its suddenness. There’s movement beside him, a timid voice. Somebody introduces themselves. It takes Paul a long time to get his bearings. When he does his eyes land on the girl next to him. Not the bohemian but a shy-looking blonde, shimmying closer to him on the couch. Pressing her thigh to his. 

“I’m sorry, could you repeat yourself?” Paul says, her words and her name having slipped into his ear and right out of the other one in his distracted state. So she tells him her name again and the evening continues. He forgets it again just a while later when he’s pulled to his feet and coaxed into dancing with miss Marianne Faithful. He forgets about the man too. Hours pass. Then he spots him again and it all comes rushing back. 

Their eyes meet across the room through the crowd. The man is, this time, slouched against an antique looking chest of drawers. Seemingly uninterested in the girl who’s trying to talk to him. Maybe he’s been staring for a while, Paul thinks. The thought makes his blood run hot for some reason. And now he can’t look away. 

The man smiles again. Nothing of the kind, polite sort. They are beyond that. Paul knows it. They shouldn’t be, but they are. The man smiles and its nothing short of seductive, nothing if not intense. They way his eyes narrow and his lips curve. And then comes the jerk of the head, a quick gesture towards the door. His gaze follows, then pointedly falls back to Paul. 

It’s obvious isn’t it? If he were a woman, Paul wouldn’t doubt for a second what was implied. Though a woman would never be so bold, would she? Would never lick her lips and touch herself and smile like that and make such a suggestion. Well, the suggestion Paul thinks the man is making. A suggestion Paul should only laugh at. Because it’s absurd. Because he is not like that. 

He doesn’t laugh. Instead he starts moving through the crowd. There is not much of a thought in his head about why or what it would lead to. His feet move at their own accord, he follows them blindly. 

Back through the corridor, into the hallway. He breaks on through to the other side, to the quiet. The dimly lit staircase. The walls are painted blue by the dusk, the floor is breathing and sighing despite it being made of cold, dead stone. Everything comes to life in the night, with the guiding hand of this feeling. 

Paul lean against the windowsill, peers out to the street below. Behind him, behind the wall the dull sounds of the party continues. A backdrop to his hurried pulse. Seconds pass slower than ever, he dares not turn around. Cannot bear to find emptiness staring back at him. So he looks at passing cars and flickering street lights. Until he comes. 

It starts with the twist of a door knob. The ambiance of the festivities grow loud again for a second before the door closes with an ear shattering bang. Paul is aware of every move he makes. Another breath echoes along his own, a careful set of footsteps. Coming closer. 

“You are a weird man.” Paul says. In the aftermath of the party. The man snorts a laugh. 

“I get that a lot.” He says. His voice is as sharp as his looks, Paul thinks. It suits him. A slightly nasal tenor, accented and melodic. Paul loves a good melody.

“As you should, with how you behave.” 

“I was not expecting a scolding! But if you’re into that sort of thing I wouldn’t mind, I guess.” 

Paul finally turns around then. Ready with a question and maybe a bit of outrage. It’s not alot but it’s too much. But he finds himself almost crowded against the wall and all fight drains from him. Words forgotten. The man is close, close enough for Paul to see every freckle on his cheeks and to feel him exhale, a puff of air against his face. 

“I’m John.” He says. The scent of him wafts over Paul. He smells of earth and fire. Like fresh forest air. 

“Paul.” Paul says. It comes out more like a whisper. He clears his throat and repeats himself. John laughs again. 

“Do I take your breath away?” He leers, leaning closer. It sounds halfway between condescending and flirtatious. 

“I…” Making Paul speechless is not an easy feat. He’s sure on his feet, a quick-thinker, used to the weirdest of people. You have to be, in this industry. Still, here he finds himself, unable to respond. 

“Hey, hey, ease up, mate.” John steps back. The distance does nothing to clear Paul’s mind. He can still feel John’s heat all around him and its confusing him. “S’not that serious, y’know. Just having a laugh.” John pulls out a cigarette and a matchbox. He lights up with practised elegance. The embers glow orange through the dark. 

“Well, it’s a hoot.” Paul finally says. He tries for sarcasm, but it falls flat. 

“Really.” John hides behind a smokescreen, but the fog is opaque and Paul can clearly see the way his jaw stiffens. “Still you came here. No one put a gun to your head.” Once again, Paul doesn’t know what to say. And John turns his head away. 

Maybe he should head back inside. Or just go home. Max probably won’t be waiting outside with the car, but a walk would do Paul good. 

But he stays, sneaking glances of John out of the corner of his eye. His aquiline nose, his thin, unhappy mouth, curled around the cigarette. And as the quiet between them stretches into the night, an impulse takes control of Paul, something he just can’t resist. Egged on by the putrid but oh-so tempting smell, by the need he has to always make everything alright. Quick as a cat he snatches the cigarette, takes a drag. 

John looks shocked for a short moment, hand hanging in the air with nothing to hold onto anymore. Paul lingers at the feeling of the damp filter between his lips. Shivering for some unknown reason. The bad tension breaks. The good one slips back in, twofold. 

“You bounder!” John exclaims. “You scoundrel, you thief you. I should cripple you for that!” 

“I can pay you back, mister.” Paul smiles, fluttering his lashes in an attempt to look innocent. 

“Oh it doesn’t matter, the trust is broken.” It’s easy, this, Paul thinks. So easy it’s complicated. 

“Should we head out?” the words slip out of Paul without much help from his befuddled brain. It sounds stupid to him, but John just grins. They descend the stairs. It’s a night for bounding down the steps like eager young boys, toppling over each other in excitement of what the dark might bring. The lift be damned. 

They stumble into the foyer, John almost knocks over the plant. Almost only because Paul saves the day with a quick move. 

“Like bloody superman or something.” John says, impressed as Paul steadies the pot and gives the thick leaves a gentle pat. As if it were some sort of dog. 

“I’m a man of many talents.”

“Don’t sell yourself long.” They giggle stupidly. Paul still feels high as a kite, but his thoughts do not trickle like syrup through his head anymore so maybe this is a different sort of high. He’s high enough to float across the chequered floor, high enough to not consider the reality of things until he comes to a halt in front of the door. Then he remembers. There is a world outside.

He straightens his tie. He throws John a glance. 

“What’s with the face?” John asks. Perceptive it seems. 

“I was born with it, sorry.” Paul jokes half-heartedly. 

“Ha ha.” John rolls his eyes. “Seriously, what got your knickers in a twist? Again…” 

“Are you capable of behaving yourself, John?” Paul goes for a jovial feel, though the question is a serious one. John peers at him over the rim of his glasses. 

“I’m not stupid.” He says, leaning just a little closer. “I do know who you are, Paul. Like most do.” Paul bites the soft flesh of his inner cheek. Yeah, of course John knows who he is. He hadn’t even thought about that. Now the fear appears. It could be a scheme, this whole thing. He could end up being caught with his pants around his ankles or something. 

“Yeah…” Paul leans in too. Seeking something in the brown of John’s eyes. 

“Okay?” John offers his hand. Paul wants to trust him. Why, he doesn’t know, he doesn’t have a reason to. He should have his guard up. This thing, whatever it is, could be dangerous. Still. He takes John’s hand. It’s a silly business-like handshake. 

“Okay.” Paul nods. They burst out into the cold night. From the top of the stairs there is no one to be seen. Doorman has left for the night and the pavement is void of any pedestrians. Paul has a hard time trusting the dark, but he can pretend. They start down the street. 

It’s a tight fit for two people, between the parked cars and the garden gates. John’s knuckles brush against Paul’s. Paul’s heart quickens, his breath catches. It’s nothing, probably accidental. Still he slips his hands into his pockets. Just to be on the safe side. Maybe his faked bravado cracks just a little, maybe he peers quickly over his shoulder for a piece of mind. No one there.

“Where we going to?” He asks, keeping his voice straight. 

“Where do you think?” The street lamp leaves a reflection in John’s crinkled eyes. A lick of yellow across his hair. 

“I think I don’t know and you don’t either.” Paul feels a smile tugging at his lips. 

“I think I have an idea actually. If you’re up for a nightcap. Or maybe some… tea.” John mimes smoking a joint. Paul mirrors him with his stolen cigarette. The smoke in his lungs doesn’t leave him at ease as it usually does. The feeling, whatever it may consist of, has a strong hold of him. Has its claws buried in his insides. 

“Sounds good.” Paul feigns nonchalance. He takes pride in his nonchalance faking skills. “Yours then?” 

“Mine.” John confirms. “Probably not as fancy as yours, Mr. Success. Let me guess, you own half a block in St. John’s Wood or the like?” 

“Well…” Paul says. 

“You’ll have to do with my crappy little flat.”

“I’ve been in my fair share of crappy flats, I’ll have you know.” Paul feels the need to defend himself. “I’ve had a humble beginning.” He’s not some hoity-toity upperclass gentleman. Just a working-class boy from up north who made it big on a little luck and a lot of hard work. 

“The same could probably not be said for your neighbours. They live in a different world, those rich bastards.” 

“They’re really quite alright, just a little stuck up most of the time.” Paul says. Stuck up people might just be John’s idea of a nightmare though. With how inappropriate he is, how rough and tough he acts. He’d be a sore thumb among the sort of people the Asher’s invite to their dinner parties. Paul tries to imagine how that evening would go, it’d be somewhere between disastrous and a riot. But what does he know really, he hardly knows the guy. Can only guess his character by piecing together the clues he has gathered during this one evening. 

They walk for about half an hour before arriving outside a modest looking building. Nothing like old Robert’s house. This block looks distinctly run down, but in a charming way. Weather worn brick and uneven steps. Between the facade and the stonewall there’s a sliver of untamed greenery, vines climbing and reaching for just a taste of sunlight.  
“It’s not much.” John says once they’ve climbed to the third floor. Moths flock to the dingy, yellow light in the ceiling. He fumbles with his keys, it takes a good long while and Paul can’t help a nervous giggle. Then the door finally swings open and they both fall into a two-roomer. 

“It’s sort of cozy.” Paul shrugs out of his jacket. Cozy in an utterly chaotic sort of way. It’s clearly the home of an artist. Canvases and paints and dirty dishes, odd socks and rags and stray candy wrappers litter every available surface. 

“Lier.” John says, stepping out of his shoes and weaving through the clutter to fall down on top of the bed that stands in the middle of the living room. “Stu’s out anyway. So… He’s probably at his girlfriends.” Paul only hums as his answer. Stu must be a roommate or something, he thinks. He’s more interested in this living space. It feels almost like he’s stepped into the mind of John. Well, at least he imagines it to be something like this. There’s a beautiful disaster behind those eyes. 

John is bold and unafraid. He paints like he acts. Some of the art is crass and rude, some of it is sexual, some of it is both. A few of the sketches taped to the wall make Paul smile so wide he thinks his face ought to break in two. 

In the corner, in the shadow, an old battered guitar stands. Paul can’t help but approach it. He wonders if John plays, the thought alone makes his stomach flutter with excitement. He runs a hand across the strings. They hum beneath his fingers. 

Then finally he turns to John. John who is observing him from the bed. Legs spread and arms pillowing his head. It’s suggestive. Paul can’t not see that. Suddenly his tongue feels like sandpaper, something heavy settles in his chest. He swallows, then smiles. 

“Tea?” He asks. 

“Drawer.” John says, not moving a muscle. 

“You lazy boy. Not much of a good host are you now?” 

“Roll me one.” John just demands with a wicked grin. 

“Demanding.” 

Paul finds what he is looking for. Fingers nimble with practise, he makes use of the flat surface of the telly, the only available space, to roll the joint. With a lick to the paper, he seals the deal. 

“We’re sharing, I can’t be bothered to do another one.” He says, lighting up with a flick of his lighter. The heady smoke trickles down into his lungs. John holds his hand out in a request. Paul walks closer to pass him the joint. 

At the foot of the bed, he feels incredibly awkward. He is not used to it, to the shuffling feet and the unsure fingers and the way time slows down. 

“Come here.” John says after too long. He huffs and puffs and coughs. A cough Paul is familiar with. Too many ciggies, too much weed. A dry, choking rumble through his throat. He looks up at Paul. They stare at each other a beat too long. The unease Paul is experiencing only grows as he once again is captured by John. The way he wets his lips. His long slender fingers around the smoke. 

“Paul?” He pats the space beside him. Burgundy sheets. Paul feels like he should crack a joke. He doesn’t. He sits down. He can’t see John’s face like this. Only his hand, resting over a thigh. Only hear his breath. 

For a second Paul is back in that conversation pit. John across from him, palming himself through his dress pants. Paul feels himself stiffen. Back ramrod straight, teeth chewing worriedly at his bottom lip. And he feels himself stiffen. In that familiar, excitable way. A tingling sensation crawling up his legs. It’s hot and tight, fast and new. Like the very first time, except it certainly isn’t. Only difference is John’s a man. 

Paul could chew until his skin breaks. Nothing is happening really, nothing exciting. It’s just the tension, the anticipation that has his blood running hot. Then there’s the shame. Cold as ice. The conflicting feelings create a storm in his stomach. 

“Yeah?” John sits up, arm brushing against Paul’s. Paul jolts in surprise. His pulse hammering away. There’s really nothing to worry about, he tells himself. There’s nothing to this. He is only imagining the intensity in John’s eyes as he passes him the spliff. 

“I suppose.” Paul answers the non-question. He doesn’t know, truth be told.

“Alright then.” John says softly, gaze fluttering over Paul’s features. 

“I don’t know what it means.” Paul admits then. He lets a nervous smile slip. 

“Don’t think so hard you moron.” John says this in such a sweet, murmuring voice. The insult almost sounds like a term of endearment. Paul’s shame seems to whisper to him, goad him: “Come on then, twist my arm!” 

“Easier said than…” Paul begins. He’s cut off by a kiss. John’s warm fingers against his cheek. John’s wet lips against his. Stealing his air, stealing his common sense. Stealing his thought. All that is left is this feeling, the need. An instinct to press back, get closer, feel more and feel it full force. They kiss and kiss and kiss and only part for air. John breathes a sigh, a puff of air against Paul’s spit slick lips. The hair at the nape of his neck stands erect. They collide once again. Openmouthed and hurried. 

The joint falls to the floor, singes the carpet, forgotten. Paul’s fingers tangle in the mess of John’s locks. Pulling with more force than necessary and pulling a pained sound from him. Startled, Paul pulls away. 

“I’m sorry.” He says, barely recognising his own voice. It’s raspy and strained. 

“I don’t mind a bit of violence.” John is ruffled, eyes like glass and mouth all pretty in pink. It’s driving Paul crazy. In more ways than one. 

“God, what am I doing.” It’s catching up on him in that brief moment when their lips don’t touch. The insanity of it all. 

“What did I just say?” John sounds almost angry, it doesn’t suit his expression. The lovely slope of his mouth. Paul can’t remember. “Don’t think.” 

“Don’t think.” Paul repeats. So he doesn’t. He lets himself melt into John’s arms. 

They fall onto the sheets. Tangled legs and roving hands. Pressing against each other, Paul is greeted with the unfamiliar feeling of another mans arousal. Hard and insistent against his hip. It only fuels his desire. 

He grinds down, John bucks against him. They set a pace, a polyrhythm. Not completely satisfying with the layers of fabric between them, but there is something hot about how it only almost seems to scratch the itch. 

John’s breath is laboured and damp against his neck. His sure fingers slip beneath the waistband of Paul’s trousers. Hands smoothing over his backside, pulling him closer. Just a hint of skin against skin and Paul is craving more. 

“We should, um…” Paul says, traveling down the expanse of John’s body, across the warm cotton of his shirt, finally gripping at his belt. A moan escapes John, a punched out sound, involuntary and so genuine Paul can’t do nothing but twitch in excitement. He fumbles with zipper and button. 

“Genius.” John says without a hint of sarcasm. Clothes join the mess on the hardwood floor. John is down to his underwear, his nakedness is illuminated by the streetlamp outside the window. A sliver of golden across his chest. Paul runs a finger through that light. All the way to the last piece of fabric protecting John’s modesty. Well, it doesn’t hide much, with how hard John is. 

Paul feels his heart race at the sight. A mix of emotions leaving him almost light headed. 

“Please.” John begs, writhing against Paul’s light touch. Paul blinks, realises he’s been too caught up in his head. Stuck in the soothing motion of caressing the exposed skin above John’s hipbone. But that “please”, wakes him right up. Goes straight to his groin. 

“Please what?” Paul asks. Suddenly he feels in control again. And he loves it. One little finger hook around the waistband of John’s pants. 

“Paul, just…” John growls, hand gripping around Paul’s wrist. 

“Yeah, love?” Paul smiles. John tightens his grip for a second or two, looking almost furious. Then he eases up, hand gliding over Paul’s fingers and then to his own pressing need. Seeking just a little relief. God, Paul is surely going mad. 

“No.” He says and swallows. He forces John’s hand away, pins his arm to the bed. Even though he’d quite enjoyed the little show. “You tell me what you want, John.”

“Paul…” John pleads. Clearly, he likes it too. Likes being bossed around. “Please just touch me.” He finally says. Paul bites his lip, hard, trying not to loose it. 

“I’ll touch you.” He says. And he does. He takes John firmly in hand, grips him through his underwear. The first tentative stroke seems overwhelming for them both. Paul can only marvel at the feeling. It’s different, it’s unfamiliar. It’s… He’s twitching in sympathy, neglected and weeping, yet to be touched properly. And John’s a mess, flushed and whimpering. 

Paul leans over him, uses his free hand to brush the hair from John’s forehead, then cups his face gently to bring their lips together once more. 

“What should I do with you, huh?” He wonders aloud. 

“Whatever you wish.” John breathes. Just a helping hand and he’s a goner, putty in Paul’s hand, speaking his mind before thinking. It does something to Paul, this complete surrender, this sincerity. No walls, no facades, just pure want. However dirty or wrong it is said to be. In the moment it’s only bliss to Paul. It’s pleasure and pain. A deep ache in his chest. He curses the hopeless romantic living inside of him. 

Tugging at the last bit of resistance, he gives in and strips them both. They’re down to the birthday suits. He’s mindful not to look too close at John, as if that’d be the straw that would break the camels back. Somehow it’s easier just to touch. To lie down on top of him and press close, head to toe. 

“Mmh.” John is incoherent but sounds agreeing to how things are progressing. This was a good idea, no use in denying it. Despite the rough scruff of manly legs, despite a flat chest and a low voice murmuring into his ear, Paul is already too close. He won’t last long. 

Their hands meet and tangle into a mess of fingers, stroking each other and themselves to completion. It boils down to a few seconds, then they slip over the edge. One after the other. 

After the intensity that is his orgasm, comes the fuzziness. Blurry shapes dance across his vision. There’s a loud ringing in his ears. He feels too hot, too sensitive. Feels like pushing John away, feels like pulling him closer. He opts for the latter, even though the heat is unbearable and they’re sticky with sweat. Even if the least bit of friction is too much. It’s worth it just to hear someones heartbeat, feel someone so close. Revelling in the scent of John, whoever he is. Paul inhales him, trying to catch his breath. He feels like a newborn, underdeveloped senses and without any skills of communication. All he knows is touch. There’s such comfort in it, being together. But all good things comes to an end. He slowly tunes back into the world, it’s inevitable. The silence is there to greet him, only interrupted by the city life, continuing outside. Passing cars and a happy gaggle of youngsters, probably walking home from the pub. 

The dread is announcing itself. Tossing and turning inside of him. On the outside he is completely still, frozen on the bed. Staring at the ceiling, following the web of cracks with his eyes. It doesn’t calm him, the seed of fear was planted long ago and now it is in full bloom.

He sits upright. John shifts beside him. 

“Hm?” He makes a sleepy, questioning sound. Paul stands up, not sure of what exactly he is doing, but certain of one thing and one thing only. He needs to get out of here.  
Up on his feet he suddenly realises he’s naked. Usually unabashed about that sort of thing, he feels unprepared for the vulnerability that crashes over him. What has he done?  
John is naked too, of course he is. He’s stretching like a cat, unbothered. Slick with their combined release. Paul flushes at the sight. There’s a wicked beauty to it, he feels a flare of returning arousal. But more powerful than that is the shame. 

He turns his back on him, reaches for his clothes. 

“Running away are we?” John asks. Paul hears him fumble with something. A fag, a matchbox. A fag… Paul is spiralling, dressing himself hurriedly. His fingers are shaking, it makes it very hard to turn the arms of his shirt the right side out. “Knew you were a coward, could see it in your eyes right away.” 

The taunt pierces through his skin, usually it wouldn’t, but Paul already has his armour down. “I… this was a mistake, I don’t know what came over me.” 

“You knew exactly what was going to happen.” John spits out. 

“I didn’t.” Paul tries. He barely believes it himself. But he doesn’t need to. He only needs to know that it will never happen again. He needs only to find his socks amidst the chaos. 

A rustle behind him tells him John is leaving the bed, coming closer. Paul needs to flee fast, the socks be damned. He walks towards the hallway. But John is quick, corners him like a predator. 

“Acting like a bloody little queer.” John pushes him roughly against the wall. “Never mind tossing me off, you running away with your tail between your legs is the faggiest thing you’ve done tonight. What’s wrong, ey, Paulie? Did mummy warn you about lads like me?”

“Shut up.” Paul bites out. John is close but there’s nothing tender about him anymore. Now he’s all make war not love. Face twisted into something ugly. Things are getting out of hand. Paul would hate a physical confrontation, but he feels himself square up nonetheless. 

“You too good for this? Prim and proper and famous. The whole world loves Paul. Well, they’d tear you apart if they knew, wouldn’t they?” 

“Just let me leave, John.” Paul sounds surer than he is, sounds strong and cold. And cold he is, his blood is icy with panic, but he is not about to let it show. John could tell anyone, could run to the press in the morning and get the word out about Paul McCartney’s queer little hook-up. 

And John is fuming, bracketing Paul with his hands on the wall. His naked skin only inches from Paul’s clothed body. The moment is drawn out, the seconds too long. Then the inches disappear. John takes the final step, crashes his lips against Paul’s. It’s hard and furious and there’s nothing sweet about it. Biting teeth, hot breath. Paul kisses back, it happens automatically.

But as they part for air, John is deflating. Softer around the edges, a sadness in his eyes. ‘“Just…” He says between clenched teeth. “Paul.” 

“I…” Paul shakes his head, looks away. 

“Stay.” It’s barely audible but certainly said. A lonely little word hanging in the air between them. Paul doesn’t know what to do. John kisses him again. 

“Come on.” 

He doesn’t leave just yet.


End file.
